


the night smiles on the lonely

by daydreamingstarchild



Category: Wicked - Schwartz/Holzman
Genre: Angst, F/F, F/M, Five Times Plus One, Gelphie, I just love them a lot, Lesbians, pink goes good with green, should have been canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:01:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27775798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daydreamingstarchild/pseuds/daydreamingstarchild
Summary: Or, five times Elphaba wanted to kiss G(a)linda, and one time she couldn't.
Relationships: Elphaba Thropp/Galinda Upland, Fiyero Tigelaar/Galinda Upland
Comments: 6
Kudos: 34





	the night smiles on the lonely

**Author's Note:**

> They are perfect and should have been canon.
> 
> I haven't read the book, only watched the musical, so keep that in mind!

**I.**

She detests the silly, shallow, self-absorbed, _blonde_ airhead more than she has ever detested anything in her accursed life. The girl reeks of falseness, from the tinkle of her overbright voice, and the ridiculous flutter in her every motion, to her tightly coiffed curls and the tips of her shiny shoes — and Elphaba _loathes_ falseness.

It doesn’t help that the _goodness_ everyone fawns over is barely skin-deep, either. The doll takes one look at her and shrieks, and Elphaba finds it harder than usual to draw vindictive pleasure from her horror. The bitter tears, that have been pooling in her chest and throat since she started choking them back, burn harder than they usually do, and before she knows it they’re up in each other’s faces making it _very_ clear just how much they despise each other.

With her face scrunched up in fury and her voice spitting hatred, the girl is suddenly more real (though no less detestable), and Elphaba would do _anything_ to sully her, taint that perfect exterior so everyone could see how mean and lowly she truly was.

 _Do anything, even_ kiss _her._

The thought surfaces for barely an instant before Elphaba shoves it back down again with a shiver of dread and disgust. She’s lived long enough to know that would get her the exact reaction she longed for — just ask her father, why don’t you — but that is going too far. Elphaba refuses to sink to that level, to defile herself with lips too soft, too shiny, too pink.

(It is _not_ because Elphaba has never kissed anyone in any way whatsoever, and _not_ because the thought of it, the vulnerability and inevitable rejection, scares her, and _not_ because no matter how hard she tries, Elphaba cannot harden her heart to it.)

She spooks the girl instead, and allows herself a chuckle.

**II.**

Elphaba is a girl of strength and surety, not insipid and not indecisive, and she does _not_ like her world being turned on its head. In the course of a single day, the little blonde brat manages to do not just that, but flip it right-side-up and then back around again.

It starts with that silly, shallow, self-absorbed prick of a prince and don’t he and Galinda _deserve_ each other. Elphaba fumes all day just to learn that her roommate has made her sister — her sister! — happier than Elphaba ever could. Said sister begs her to _try to understand_ and, well, truth be told, it doesn’t take much effort to reconcile the bully with the angel. Nessa, after all, is beautiful.

But then the girl smiles her brilliant smile at _Elphaba_ and holds out a hat more gorgeous than anything she has ever laid a finger on, and asks her to wear it. To the party. At the Ozdust Ballroom. And though she tells herself the smile is false, she takes the hat with trembling fingers.

The tears in her chest and throat surge, but, for the first time, there is no sting. Before she can stutter out a hesitant, heartfelt ‘thank you’, the girl is off, without a single glance back.

~

An hour later, she understands why. Leopards don’t change their spots, not in a day, and Oz, hadn’t she been a _fool_. The tears sear her insides alright, but Elphaba is a girl of _strength_. She puts the damned hat on again, trying, vainly, to remember the beauty she’d first seen in it. Sharp, it had been sharp.

She doesn’t cry, though she chokes on her anguish, and she doesn’t run. Instead, she walks forward, into the spotlight she hates, and begins to _dance_. Because that is what one does at a ballroom, isn’t it?

There is no melody, no beat, only whispers and stifled snorts. She doesn’t care, she doesn’t care, _she doesn’t care._ Those who dance are considered insane, aren’t they, by those who can’t hear the music?

She doesn’t care, but Elphaba finds her heart falter when fingers lightly graze her arm. She doesn’t care, but Elphaba freezes and curls into herself when she turns to see a face barely recognisable through all the regret. She doesn’t care, but it takes everything in her, and more, to not run as fast and as far as she can when the girl asks to dance with her.

Elphaba actually enjoys the party, after that. Or, rather, she enjoys it as best as she can while waiting for the other shoe to drop.

~

She waits, and she waits, and she waits, but it stays firmly on and her world stays upside down. Elphaba has no clue why, or what, or how, but for once, she supposes she doesn’t need to know.

It has to do with how Galinda bounces around the room, glowing in her pure, unmarred joy, and it has to do with the way she says _Elphie_ , like it means something almost precious. It has to do with the touching, if at times misguided, sincerity that shines brighter than her teeth, and with the fact that no one has ever spent as much energy or love — _not love, no, no_ — on the freak as this well-beloved child of roses and pearls.

(Later, Elphaba will wonder at herself for being amused at Galinda’s antics instead of smarting at every snub, though they _were_ unintentional and well-meaning. The truth is, much as Elphaba denies it, she has always been ruled by her heart, not her head.)

It is only when Galinda pulls the gorgeous floral piece out of her hair that Elphaba retreats into her shell once more. The girl might have turned over completely — and she has, to all effect — but Elphaba can’t— not again— not today—

But it _is_ a new day, and this seems to be a new girl, and it is altogether so different that when a voice bubbling with suppressed excitement tells her to close her eyes, Elphaba does.

A moment of quiet fidgeting, a step back, and a delighted gasp that has Elphaba’s insides squirming. Then, wonder of wonders, the child of roses and pearls, the dearest, darlingest doll of the land, earnestly tells her that she is _beautiful_ and hands her an ornate little mirror.

Now, Elphaba has always hated mirrors; no surprise there. So she’s understandably wary, and she doesn’t want to look, she doesn’t — but she’s always been too curious for her own good.

She sees a girl with green skin. (If she’s being charitable, she will admit it is a rich green that is reminiscent of life, and growth, and bounty.) She sees a girl with rich green skin, and dark eyes (that _are_ rather pretty with their wonder and passion and intelligence). She sees a girl with rich green skin and intelligent dark eyes, and long hair pinned back by a delicate flower. She sees the blush in her cheeks and the hesitant smile on her lips and the sparkle in her glance, and maybe, just maybe, Elphaba doesn’t hate _this_ mirror.

Soft claps and a giggle break her trance and Elphaba turns, putting down the mirror and meaning to express, somehow, what she feels inside, but stops abruptly. Because Galinda is _close_ , bouncing on her knees as she looks over her shoulder. They’re almost nose-to-nose and the girl doesn’t seem to care or even notice but Elphaba’s breath catches and, against her will, her gaze slips to lips too soft, too shiny, too pink.

A braver soul would not have waited, would have leaned in and up instead, but Elphaba does and it costs her. She does not regret it until years later, but what if she hadn’t remembered that she was a freak, that Galinda was perfect, that _Fiyero_ was perfect?

Elphaba stops abruptly, and then she runs, without a single glance back.

**III.**

Elphaba does not know why she invites Ga- Glinda to come with her to the Emerald City. (Or maybe she does, and simply refuses to acknowledge it. She figures it is less dangerous that way.) 

The point of the matter is, they set out together, and all the books she’d packed for the ride lie forgotten at the bottom of her suitcase. The girl in front of her is far more interesting, anyway, even if all she can talk about is the boy they’ve left behind.

Elphaba lets her prattle on, ignoring the annoyance beginning to curdle in her belly. She likes Fiyero, respects him — she couldn’t _not_ , after the incident with Lion Cub — but it is hard to swallow how infatuated with him Glinda is, especially when he doesn’t, _can’t_ feel the same way. The only other person who loves as brightly, passionately and furiously as she does is the freak who hasn’t ever known love, who won’t, _can’t_ articulate it.

But it makes her _friend_ so very happy that Elphaba remains mostly silent, nodding and humming her agreement at some places and laughing at others, with the occasional snark slipped in. It isn’t all that bad, she finds. She could watch Glinda exist in that flighty, ephemeral way of hers for hours on end without tiring of it.

But she curses Fiyero over and over, in her thoughts. Of all the people at Shiz— gold hair with a gentle curl, _that’s_ the girl he chose. Heaven knows, she would have, too.

~

It is a long journey and Glinda tires soon. As the countryside darkens under the wings of night, she ends up lying with her head in Elphaba’s lap, her words quieter, more musing. Soon, they fade away altogether and Elphaba has the witching hours to herself.

In the stories that Nessa was so fond of, in the stories that Glinda so wholeheartedly believes in — and why wouldn’t she? — true love’s kiss breaks every curse. Elphaba holds the thought tenderly and carefully, like a hope and a wish and a dream, as she runs her fingers gently through the blonde locks spilled across her lap.

(Glinda smiles in her sleep.)

The only obstacle to the perfect plan is, Glinda is a princess (or as good as) and Fiyero a prince; there is no curse to break. And so Elphaba doesn’t try.

**IV.**

Just two friends.

Two good friends.

Two _best_ friends.

It is more than Elphaba would have ever dared to dream of, and if she wants more than the bliss of affectionate amity, if she searches for more in those vivid green eyes, well — it is nobody’s business but her own.

They spend a day in the famed city and it, too, is more than Elphaba could have hoped for, or imagined. For once, the only attention she garners is mild amusement at the giggling mess that she has turned into, with the very personification of joy on her arm.

This isn’t her life. It is a day stolen from a Someone, an ordinarily special day for two ordinarily special girls, full of ordinarily special delights. For once in their lives, they are true equals — but it isn’t _really_ her life.

Glinda doesn’t ever mention Fiyero.

~

There is chocolate on the corner of those soft, shiny, pink lips, and all Elphaba wants to do is kiss it away.

~

They pose for the camera and Glinda presses her cheek as close to Elphaba’s as she can, and if she just turns her head to the side—

~

She sparkles and shimmers in the light, and Elphaba is fascinated, entranced, bewitched.

~

Had she turned her head, had she kissed the chocolate away, would she still have flown alone into the night, leaving her heart behind?

**V.**

The shallow, selfish, spineless woman disgusts her. Absolutely _disgusts_ her, as much as the fraud of a Wizard and his foul Madame. More, if she was being honest, because she had loved her so much, had _believed_ in her so much. 

They say hate is always strongest where love once was. It is true.

~

The woman has the blood of Elphaba’s only friend on her hands, and still she seeks her out when the witch hunters come knocking. Elphaba cannot stand to look at her, at that innocently perfect mask behind which lurks a lowly creature of hungry ambitions.

She orders her out, but the woman does not leave.

Then a note arrives, written in a dear, familiar cursive and Elphaba’s heart sings a song of relief. The hands are free of blood, after all, though no less impure for it, no less hateful.

The woman hazards a guess at the contents of the letter, and the mask cracks. The mask cracks and falls away, and Elphaba sees not a monster but a frightened young girl grasping for some control, any control. The mask cracks and a green heart thaws once more for the person who has always owned it.

~

The only friend who mattered. That is what she’d called her. 

The tears rise, and today Elphaba lets them spill. They don’t burn.

Glinda’s eyes are wide, earnest and dark with something new, boring into Elphaba’s soul as though searching for an answer. She hadn’t asked a question, so Elphaba doesn’t give her one.

Her heart says _yes_ , it is what she has always hoped for. Her mind says _yes_ , there had been a distance between Glinda and Fiyero, a comfortable one, but different than what it used to be. Elphaba says _no_. Why? She could not tell you, because she cannot tell herself.

The hand curled around green fingers and pressed to Elphaba’s heart tightens as her woman steps forward, emerald eyes glistening.

Her heart screams _yes_. Her mind screams _if not now, when?_

~

Elphaba pulls Glinda into a hug, and then pushes her into the shadows.

**+I.**

Elphaba does not know why she returns so often to the scene of her supposed death. She supposes there is something innately magical, innately powerful, innately victorious about living and breathing where they once celebrated your defeat. 

These days, Elphaba could do with a little magic, a little power, a little victory.

But she will not lie to herself, no. Not anymore. She _does_ know why she breaks the one rule she’d sworn to live by, of leaving Oz for good, and that is not the sole reason; she returns hoping to catch a glimpse of the other soul that she knows frequents these silent halls, the broken soul that is half her own.

It is not a naïve hope, for she sees the dust disturbed by heavy dresses that she could never wear. As she wanders, she imagines the woman beside her — the genuine woman, not the perfect facade — and she wonders if that woman, too, gazes hour upon hour at the footsteps she didn’t make. Would she know who they belonged to? Elphaba almost believes she would.

The scene she yearns for plays out in her head once more, as it has countless times. A slight rustle, the quiet clacking of distant heels, and then a figure that twinkles brilliantly even in the dimly lit ruins. Shocked, disbelieving silence followed by sobs that shatter, then piece together, the heart. An embrace so tight, a promise to never again let go, sealed with a kiss so tender and so full and so long coming, a promise in and of itself.

(Elphaba’s cheeks are wet again. She wipes them dry with a calmness all the more terrible for the hurt raging inside.)

She thinks she can hear the rustling and clacking if she listens hard enough, can discern a pale despondent figure if she looks hard enough.

The harder she looks, the fainter the elusive dream.

Elphaba will wait this night. She tells herself she will wait this night as she tells herself every night, but this time she will _not_ flee with the coming of the dawn. This time, she will fight the impulse that urges her to leave for no good reason — who will find her that she does not wish to be found by? This time, she will wait for the rustling and the clacking and the twinkling, for the tears and the kiss, for the dream.

And so she waits, and waits, and waits. The hours pass by, and words spoken by a different girl in a different world come floating to her in her solitude.

 _“Don’t wish, don’t start; wishing only wounds the heart.”_

The advice comes too late, as it had all those years ago. Galinda hadn’t loved her then, though she’d wished it; Glinda _couldn’t_ love her now, however much both of them ached for it. And maybe, maybe, _maybe_ , it is just she who thinks of what-might-have-beens, and Glinda is happy, happier, _happiest_ without her.

But she comes to the castle, doesn’t she? She walks the same corridors Elphaba does. _She wasn’t there now. She was never there when Elphaba was._

~

The dawn comes in all her hushed glory, and Elphaba flies.

**Author's Note:**

> They own me, that's all.
> 
> If people like this enough (or even if they don't), I might write an accompanying work with Glinda at the centre, and then tie it up with a lovely reunion as a bow. Or not.
> 
> Leave comments and kudos if you like; they're always appreciated! Thanks for reading :)


End file.
